


Liquor and lumpy mattresses

by Lilly_White



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alcohol, Blood Play, Casual Sex, Dirty Talk, Hotel Rooms, M/M, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8732137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilly_White/pseuds/Lilly_White
Summary: Response to the prompt "Kiss me". Sephiroth and Tseng work very long nights.





	

° ° °

There is something to be said about the ones who work at night. The darkness creeps into their clothes, makes nests in their hair. They live on liquor the colour of sunlight and grind their teeth against mints and can’t comprehend the hunger that people have in the daylight, the hunger for thick dead things to chew on and conversations that go round and round. Their mouths only know candy and tobacco and information, categorizing events to understand these numbers they call people. Understand them, not love them. 

Sometimes, they cross paths. Husks of men, empty as hardware and just as buzzingly full. They hear the other one humming from across the shoddy corridors of a twenty-Gil hotel worlds away from home. They stop, two silhouettes in black, hunched. If they are not in uniform, both look for a red diamond anywhere to signify status. Then they stop looking. The eyes are all they need to know another Midgarian. The irises grind like the Mako cylindres that surround the city – shine like the blood-spattered glass separating home owners and homeless. _Late night?_ It’s a rhetorical question, the start of a rhetorical conversation. One is chasing down a rat, the other is out to protect company investments, the rest is fire and gun smoke. They both know the script too well to bother with details.

When they drink together, it’s for the benefit of the fizz in their veins rather than words. Sometimes, the intelligence officer speaks in tongues that the soldier is not quite fluent in yet, and there is a spar, a mocking of the stillness and danger of the night as they spill liquor on cheap carpet and shout curses with the “r” in the wrong place. Sometimes, there is a hint dropped, a note in a blazer pocket and an ice cold smile, _I thought this was what you did? Follow coded clues_ – and the clue would lead to a bedroom, usually the most luxurious because the soldier doesn’t need to hide. The soldier wears his identity like a flashing golden sign wherever he goes and sometimes the intelligence officer asks him, _don’t you ever feel like you might be overdoing it a little bit? This screaming and yelling of who you are?_ But the soldier would only smile and say, _all the better to catch your eye._ If a ‘darling’ is attached at the end of the clause, the intelligence officer erases it from his mental record.

Soft feather mattresses and penthouse hotel rooms are no place for empty creatures like them. Neither are the second bedrooms of ShinRa intelligence agent houses, with their shelves full of children’s books and plush toys and lumpy hand-made quilts. A devastated wasteland would be more appropriate.  But with nothing like that available, they make do. Sometimes, the intelligence officer presses money and a threat into his host’s hand and covers the bedroom door with the soldier’s body. Sometimes, the soldier waits by the window of his hotel room until there is a knock on the door and a groan about how ridiculously obvious his _coded clues_ are. There is a hesitation every time. Is the other person drunk enough? Is this really still going on? Do I really still want this? Then, an order, dropped as decisively as a general’s call to open fire. _Kiss me_. Their mouths meet, golden and sticky with alcohol, and there are fingers in silver hair and hands unbuckling plain-clothes trousers. There are no more questions.

The intelligence officer loves sensory deprivation. There is the whisper of a scarf tied as a blindfold around his head. The tucking of inky hair into a long ponytail that the soldier can pull. The intelligence officer knows how to stay quiet – his years of training have embedded things into him, like silence and stillness and how to prefer the feel of cold metal over human skin. The soldier thus takes it into his own hands to break the man’s silence. He is insistent. If no noise is made, the mission is a failure. There are mouths tracing wet paths across skin, fingers grasping that thick and hard rod that the officer has always had trouble controlling. There is penetration from every angle, tongue in the mouth and fingers in the ass soon replaced by something much larger and leaking pearls of precum, and so much silver hair that it feels like sinking into a bed of feathers. The moment the officer manages a noise, it is caught and catalogued. Was it a moan of abandon? Not quite there. A reflexive noise? Yes. Was the origin pleasure or pain? Hard to say. There is a violent bucking of the hips, a pinning down of wrists until the noise breaks the boundaries of the ‘reflexive’ and finally enters the domain of the ‘moan’. Soon, the mounting ecstasy results in another shattering of boundaries, leading to what can be confidently described as a ‘scream’.  The soldier is satisfied.

The soldier loves blood and words. This is the only time where he will encourage words. There will be knives dragging light red curls over his skin and the biting of lips, red covering chins and dripping into the soldier’s hair like blood stains on snow. And there will be words – such words. Wet, bitten lips moving against the shell of his ear – _I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name – I’m going to fill you with so much of my cum that it’ll still be trickling out of you tomorrow morning –_ a strange kind of poetry that tightens his insides and makes him thrust into the officer’s hands. It’s all hard metal edges and nails and teeth, like wolves clawing at each other in a pit, soiling the sheets with a tangy cocktail of spit and blood and cum. They always throw the sheets away after the act.

Sometimes, with their bodies full of each other, they feel close to something like saturation. Heat. Flesh. That ‘fullness’ that they keep hearing about. They lay panting in the aftermath, perhaps looking out at the city lights from the hotel room window, or at the book labeled ’The History of Wutai: Children’s Edition’ sitting on the bedside table under the teddy bear and frilly lamp. They think of questions they suddenly want to ask. _Do you have a family? How long has it been since you started hating yourself? What’s your favourite part of the world? Do you believe in God?_ But the urgency of knowing each other more deeply fades just as fast as the heat on their skin. Belts are buckled, socks are pulled back on. Sleeping together, literally sleeping together, is never appropriate.

When morning comes, they do not know each other anymore. One shrinks into the shadows, the other tends to his duties with bleary eyes. When they meet again at their HQ in Midgar, there is a knowing that passes between them – a memory of resounding screams, of fingers dipped in red and names whispered against throats. They pass each other. Officer Tseng, says the one with a nod of the head. General Sephiroth, says the other. Their shoulders are squared, their backs straight. Arms brush, a lingering heat is spread. Then it vanishes as quickly as the light in the wake of their shadows.      

° ° °


End file.
